They sat entranced as Phredd’s wavery tones brought the past back to life for them.
“ ‘The plague has come to Loamhedge, a great sickness is upon us. This morning we buried four, three sisters and one brother. Our infirmary is packed with the ill and suffering. I fear this Abbey has become a pest hole. Abbess Germaine and her Council have reached a bitter decision: if we are to survive, we must leave Loamhedge. It is almost unthinkable, is it not? Having to forsake our beautiful old home to wander in the wilderness. Germaine speaks of travelling to Mossflower country, where she has friends who will give us shelter. We are to take very little with us and live off the land as we go. These are hard and sad times, indeed.
“ ‘However, there is no other way for it. Poor Sister Amyl is a young mouse who has never walked. She makes her way about in a wheeled chair. Amyl has decided not to go with us. I pleaded with her, saying that I would care for her and push the chair to wherever we were bound, but she would not hear of it. Amyl said that the journey would be far too arduous and feared that she would hold us back. In a way she is right, since a wheeled chair cannot be hauled over hill and dale. There would be bad weather to contend with—rivers, swollen streams, rocks and swampland. Also, it will soon be wintertide. The Abbess does not know of Amyl’s decision yet. It is my sad duty to tell her of the situation. Young Sister Amyl is such a good creature. It will break my heart to leave her at Loamhedge, amid the dying.’ ”
Toran interrupted the narration by sniffing loudly and grubbing a paw across his moist eyes. “Pore liddle thing, left t’die in a deserted Abbey. I’d never leave ye to a fate like that, Martha, no matter wot it took!”
Bragoon grasped the haremaid’s paw. “Me either, miss!”
Martha forestalled Saro and the rest by holding up a paw. “I know you wouldn’t, none of you. . . .”
She caught sight of Old Phredd, glaring about impatiently. “Oops, sorry sir, we’ll be quiet, I promise!”
The Gatekeeper huffed, then leafed on to another marked page. “Thank you! Now let me read further into this narrative. Here is a section by Recorder Scrittum, concerning setting up camp on the first evening of the journey.
“ ‘Let me tell you of a miracle! Can I believe my eyes, you must take what I tell you as true, I have always been a faithful recorder, and never given to lying. Here was I, trudging along carrying my writing equipment and a sack of provisions. We were heading for a streambank with high sides, where there would be shelter for the brothers and sisters. I was travelling somewhere in the centre of the column, not having seen the Abbess, as she was leading up at the front. I came away from Loamhedge, filled with shame and remorse, being too overcome with grief to bid Sister Amyl farewell. I slunk off like a thief. Then, from the rear of the marchers, a mighty cheer rose up. I trekked back to see what was causing such jubilation. There across the heathland, limping slowly but walking without any shadow of a doubt, came young Sister Amyl!’ ”
Again, Phredd’s recital was interrupted when a hearty cheer came from his listeners. The old hedgehog made as if to slam the book shut.
“Do you want to hear the rest of this, or shall I lay back on my bed and go to sleep, eh, eh?”
Somewhat embarrassed, Abbot Carrul replied, “Forgive us, friend, we’ll stay silent. It was just that we felt so happy for Sister Amyl, we had to cheer.”
Phredd went back to his book, muttering, “Aye, so did I when I first read it. Ahem, allow me to continue. ‘Was it a miracle, or some sort of magic? I had told the Abbess of Amyl’s plight. She was sorrowful, of course, but informed me she would have a word with Amyl. What came of their conversation, I did not know. But here was my young friend, as large as life and up on her footpaws. Later that evening we sat by the fire, exhausted after the day’s long march. Sister Amyl lay wrapped in her cloak sleeping deeply. I sought out Abbess Germaine and spoke to her about the amazing happening. Here is what our great and wise Mother Abbess told me. She said that she had recalled a formula, given to her by an old healer, many seasons ago. Searching through her belongings, she had found the parchment. This she gave to Amyl, telling her that she must decide on her own whether to stay or whether to read the formula, learn from it and undertake the journey. Obviously, Sister Amyl must have read what was written on the parchment. Was it a magic spell, or some remedy of herbal medicine? The Abbess would not tell me.’ ”
Martha stifled a cry of disappointment, nevertheless listening dutifully as Phredd continued reading.
“ ‘Next morning I dropped to the rear of the column and walked with Sister Amyl, whose pace was getting stronger and more sure as the day went on. I told her what I had gleaned from the Abbess and faced her with the question: What was written on the parchment?
“ ‘Amyl gave me one of her rare, secretive smiles and refused to speak of it. All that day I persisted, harassing her to divulge the information. It was only after a full day’s march through sleeting rain and harsh country that she relented. We were camped beside a rocky tor, huddled in our cloaks around the fire, when she finally spoke. Her words are etched into my memory, and here they are, for what it’s worth. The message on the parchment would be of no use to you. It would only have a meaning for somebeast who is greatly troubled in mind or body. Once I had learned what the old healer’s rhyme was, I left the parchment behind at Loamhedge. I carry its power within me now, but any creature in need of those words must seek it out for themselves.
“ ‘Beneath the flower that never grows,
Sylvaticus lies in repose.
My secret is entombed with her,
look and think what you see there.
A prison with four legs which moved,
yet it could walk nowhere,
whose arms lacked paws, but yet they held,
a wretched captive there.’ ”
Phredd closed the book decisively, addressing its cover. “My bed calls me. I bid you a weary goodnight.”
Bragoon protested. “Is that all there is?”
Abbot Carrul reassured the otter. “If there was more, my old friend would have told you. Right, Phredd?”
The ancient Abbey Gatekeeper reached for his nightshirt. “Right indeed, young Carrul. I have given you all the information that is of interest to you, namely, Sister Amyl’s story. We already have a map of the route to Loamhedge that was used by Matthias in his search for his son Mattimeo.”
Saro yawned and stood up stretching. “We’ll look at that tomorrow. After all that racin’ an’ jiggin’, I’m ready for bed, too. That poem of Sister Amyl’s, ’tis a real tail twister an’ no mistake. Flowers that never grow, prisons with four legs an’ no paws. An’ who in the name o’ fur’n’bush is Sylvaticus lyin’ in repose?”
Old Phredd poked his head through the neck of the nightshirt. “Sylvaticus was the first Abbess of Loamhedge. Don’t know where I learned that, must have been at Dibbun School. Hmmm, that was more seasons ago than I care to remember. Funny how old little facts stick in one’s mind. Don’t slam my door when you leave, it doesn’t like being slammed. Goodnight!”
They strolled back to the Abbey through the balmy night air, discussing the whole thing.
Martha turned to Bragoon and Saro, who were pushing her chair. “Phredd said that you were the two travellers from the past. Do you believe him?”
Bragoon nodded. “Of course we do, beauty. Don’t ye fret now, me’n my mate’ll bring that parchment back from Loamhedge for ye. Ain’t that right, Saro?”
The aging squirrel’s reply left Martha in no doubt. “Aye, I’ll wager a split acorn to a cream tea on it, missy. We’ll have ye up’n’dancin’ in no time!”